


The Conscientious Omega

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Beta!John, Dubious Consent, First Time, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega!Sherlock, Omegaverse, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-07
Updated: 2011-11-07
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:27:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This is the truth,” John said to Sherlock, and then lied.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Conscientious Omega

John heard only snippets of Sherlock’s monologue as he darted back and forth through the flat, up and down the stairs, a lean, dark, cursing blur.  
   
“…of all the bloody inconvenient…”  
   
If Sherlock wanted assistance, he would ask for it, so John continued to read the paper.  
   
“…verge of a breakthrough in the Knightsbridge…”  
   
When he breezed by a fourth time, John lifted his head and sniffed the air. Ah. That was why Sherlock was having a conniption. It was his Time. Well, they had been through this once or twice before. Things didn’t change much for John: he still had to do the shopping and run errands for Sherlock, and Sherlock was hardly more of a needy, demanding mess than usual.  
   
“John, where is that box that came in the post last week?”  
   
Gesturing with the corner of the paper, John replied, “On the worktop, where you left it.”  
   
“Right. Yes. Stupid! And growing stupider by the minute.” Sherlock entered the kitchen for the third time, shoved the package under one arm, and announced his imminent retreat. Last thing, he threw John his mobile. “I should be finished much sooner than usual,” he said, “so if anything interesting comes up, tell whomever it is that I should be available tomorrow.”  
   
“Tomorrow?”  
   
“Hopefully!” Sherlock called back as he raced up the stairs.  
   
“Getting _nuttier_ by the minute, more like,” John said to no one, and indulged himself in a deep breath for the express purpose of inhaling the pheromones Sherlock had left hanging in the air.  
   
Being a beta at a time like this was like being in the house when someone was baking banana bread. One might catch a whiff and think, “Mmm, someone’s baking banana bread. Might have a slice for pudding later.” Whereas an alpha would open the oven door and scoop as much of the scalding batter into his mouth as possible. This was why betas didn’t think much of alphas.  
   
Personally, John wouldn’t have minded having himself a little slice of Sherlock, but Sherlock never expressed any mutual interest, and being periodically forced to acknowledge his sexual identity caused him nothing but self-loathing, so John had kept the idea to himself. At the moment, he was most pleased having realised that it was Thursday. With Sherlock locked away upstairs and Sherlock’s busy mobile in his possession (and turned _off_ ), there was nothing left to threaten his uninterrupted viewing of the new episode of _Top Gear_.  
   
As the evening wore on, the traffic noise outside died down, and the flat grew quieter. Soon, John’s _Times_ -inspired perusal of Wikipedia’s entry on Greece was accompanied only by the soft, ever-present electric hum from the kitchen. Then, from upstairs came a strange noise. A thump and a squeak, and then the unmistakable sound of Sherlock in distress. Then more squeaking.  
   
This was not normal. John set his laptop aside and grabbed his gun. If some alpha maniac had broken in to assault Sherlock, it would be the last thing the bastard would ever do.  
   
Holding the gun in combat position, John tiptoed up the edge of the stairs, where the boards did not creak. The sounds coming from Sherlock’s room were more ambiguous now. His noises seemed frustrated, not imperiled, and if there was anyone else in the room, they weren’t making any sounds of their own, verbal or otherwise. But John refused to hesitate more than a half-second at the door, not when Sherlock, so vulnerable right now, might be in danger.  
   
He turned the doorknob, found it unlocked. As he burst into the room, he first saw a smear in his vision of Sherlock on the bed, and immediately turned to secure the area behind the door, in case the attacker was waiting for him there.  
   
Scanning the room in another instant and finding no one present, his gaze fell on Sherlock, who, he saw clearly now, was lying flat on his back, pushing a large cherry-red plastic phallus into his own arsehole. The instrument had a pliable sac attached to the end, which Sherlock had been in the process of squeezing with one hand. Now, he was frozen still, and wide-eyed.  
   
“Well,” John sighed, lowering his gun. “Reckon this is the most awkward thing that’s happened all week.”  
   
Sherlock gaped at John for a long while, unable to summon the wherewithal even to order him out of the room. But before common sense could prevail and John could excuse himself, Sherlock said, “I think I need your help.”  
   
“With that? Looks like you’ve got it well sorted.”  
   
Sherlock turned his head, so he was staring at the ceiling, and dropped his knees. He let go of the toy, still inside him. “But I don’t,” he lamented. “Damn it, this was supposed to _work_!”  
   
John recognised the tone of a frustrated patient, and set the gun on the floor, slowly walking toward the bed. “What was supposed to work? Start at the beginning.”  
   
Sherlock took a deep breath. “Last year. When my Time happened.” The surging hormones were making his head swim, and he was finding it difficult to force out complete sentences. “I ordered some XYY off the internet.”  
   
“I…don’t know what that is. Is that the brand name?”  
   
“Synthesised alpha hormone. Just like in a real alpha’s ejaculation, but no sperm. When an omega’s body absorbs it, it thinks it’s been bred. The heat ends.”  
   
John had heard of this recent breakthrough in hormone synthesis, but it wasn’t something that got written up in mainstream journals, or bantered about at the surgery.  
   
“I got the XYY. Put it in a syringe, and, you know, injected it. But nothing changed. My Time took just as long. So I went back on the internet. More research.”  
   
“And you found that wasn’t enough,” John said. “The hormones aren’t enough to fool your body.”  
   
Sherlock was growing more frustrated with his inability to articulate. “I didn’t know omegas had to have an orgasm! I’ve never had an orgasm in my life!”  
   
This revelation gave John a startling, pleasant jolt in his guts, but he gave no indication.  
   
“So I bought this thing.” Sherlock gestured at the phallus with both hands. It was still sticking out of him; he was apparently too flustered to consider removing it. “It’s supposed to…Christ, I can’t think straight. When it’s my Time. Read the box!”  
   
The parcel that Sherlock had taken with him earlier in the day lay open on the bureau, torn open in haste, the packing materials scattered. On top of the clutter was an unfolded sheet of paper. John read:  
   
 _For the omega who desires SOLO PLEASURE, the natural-feeling ALPHA 2.0 provides comfort and relief during estrus. The patented Alphasac™ can hold a full dose of XYY, enabling the conscientious omega to abbreviate his heat while experiencing ULTIMATE SENSATION._  
   
“Ultimate sensation?” John raised an eyebrow and held up the sheet.  
   
“I can’t, John. The thing doesn’t work. It’s a scam, for stupid desperate omegas. Like me.”  
   
There was nothing special about the “Alpha 2.0.” It was a sex toy like any other, albeit with an apparatus for administering the hormone in conjunction with the requisite orgasm. Sherlock was halfway to the solution: the hormone had to be absorbed by the womb, not just the sphincter, but the reproductive valve only opened during orgasm. By rights, the Alpha 2.0, being structurally identical to a penis for all intents and purposes, ought to provide the requisite stimulation.  
   
Knowing what he knew about omegas, and knowing what he knew about the Alpha 2.0, John concluded that Sherlock’s only real problem was that he was rubbish at masturbation.  
   
But Sherlock didn’t need to know that.  
   
John set the sheet aside and conjured up his best bedside manner. “Come now, there’s no need for that kind of talk. Desperate, perhaps, but stupid you are not.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “First, let’s get this silly thing out of you. May I?”  
   
Trusting his doctor implicitly, Sherlock nodded, and watched John gently remove the Alpha 2.0. It was wet with Sherlock’s lubrication. The odor was…extremely appealing. John’s prick was making its interest very clear, jerking insistently against the fabric of his trousers. Looking around, John finally set the toy on some of the packing materials from the box.  
   
“This is the truth,” John said to Sherlock, and then lied: “That thing _is_ a scam. You can’t have an orgasm with a plastic toy. You need real flesh and blood to make it happen.”  
   
“Out of the question, John! I can’t let myself be bred!”  
   
“You don’t need to. You can find a nice beta to do it. A beta can’t breed you, you know that. If you like, I’ll help you get yourself cleaned up and dressed, and we’ll see if we can find someone to do the job. Perhaps you’ve got an old client who owes you a favour?”  
   
“I couldn’t do that either!” Sherlock curled in on himself. “Let some beta I hardly know have his way with me? I’d rather suffer the…” His eyes lit up. “John! You’re a beta! You would do it for me, wouldn’t you?”  
   
John gave an exaggerated shrug. “I don’t know, that’s kind of asking a lot,” he deadpanned.  
   
Sherlock clutched John’s arm. “Please, John. You’re the only person I trust in the whole world.”  
   
“Well, I suppose, if there was no one else who could do it…”  
   
“Please.”  
   
With all the reluctance he could muster in his voice, John conceded. “But only because it will make your Time shorter and get you back to solving cases.”  
   
God, his prick was aching. He wanted to take it out so badly, but he wasn’t sure how to best get things started, but feigning disinclination had worked so far. “Listen,” he said coyly. “I’m not as impressive as that thing you bought.” He stood up, but stayed close to the edge of the bed. He lowered his zip and took out his cock, displaying it for Sherlock. “Do you think you could be satisfied with just this?”  
   
Sherlock watched John’s stiff prick bob up and down as he freed it, then continue to twitch in time with his heartbeat. He swallowed thickly. “Oh, yes, John. Please, let me have it. I need it.”  
   
Not bothering to conceal his smug smirk, John shucked the rest of his clothing and climbed into bed next to Sherlock. Sherlock was still curled up; John had to do quite a bit of work getting him stretched back out and spreading his legs, and Sherlock shivered the whole way through. John tried, at least, to make his touches seem more like nudging caresses, rather than forceful grabs.  
   
“Was that the first time you’ve had anything up there?” he asked.  
   
Sherlock nodded.  
   
“Did it hurt?”  
   
“It was strange,” Sherlock said.  
   
John found his fingers gravitating to Sherlock’s arsehole, so to cover himself he quickly muttered, “I’m just going to check and make sure you didn’t hurt yourself with that contraption.” His fingers sank inside; the heat was incredible, and the stretched opening immediately clamped down on his fingers, becoming perfectly tight. Extraordinary. Every pull and clasp of that muscle on his fingers, John felt in his cock.  
   
“Am I alright?” Sherlock asked, his voice wavering.  
   
“You’re fine.” John rolled to mount him. “We’re going to get you sorted now.”  
   
When the tip of his cock touched Sherlock’s wet little hole, Sherlock cried out, “Wait!” For a moment he seemed to have lost his train of thought, but then recovered, and asked, “You’re absolutely certain you’re a beta?”  
   
John chuckled. “Sherlock, if I were an alpha, I would have fucked you in half by now.”  
   
Sherlock gulped and nodded. “Go on, then.”  
   
He slipped in easily, but oh, Sherlock was so snug inside. The feel of his warm, viscous lubrication provoked a gasp from John, but he felt something else as well, a sloshing fluid inside, the hormones Sherlock had injected. He began to thrust, closing his eyes and feeling Sherlock out, unable to help but smile and sigh contentedly at the two competing liquid sensations inside Sherlock’s body. He pinned Sherlock’s wrists to the pillow above his head, so he could rub his face in Sherlock’s armpits and get drunk on his pheromones.  
   
Sherlock squirmed like he was trying to get closer to John and wriggle away from him at the same time. John noticed this, and it brought him back to himself. “Sorry,” he said. “Just…you feel good.”  
   
Sherlock turned his head away.  
   
“Do I…? Feel good?” John asked.  
   
“Mm.”  
   
“I’ll bet I feel better than that toy.”  
   
“Mm.” Sherlock nodded a bit. “Warm.”  
   
“You’re doing so well. You’re holding me inside you so nicely.”  
   
It was rare for a beta to get a chance at an omega like this. In the first place, almost all betas were heterosexual. And the rare exceptions were out of luck, because as soon as any omega gave the slightest indication that they were sexually inclined, an alpha could always get in first…even if a beta happened to be holding hands with the omega at the moment. Pulp writers cranked out risible romance novels about forbidden romances between omega nobility and beta servants, but it was not regarded as a plausible configuration in reality.  
   
It felt like, just by walking in on Sherlock doing what he’d been doing, John had been caught stealing the silverware, but now he’d been given two candlesticks besides.  
   
Sherlock had begun to make little noises, and arched to press his ribs and groin more tightly against John’s body. This John found not only arousing but reassuring, and he slowed down, giving Sherlock rich strokes, introducing a little grind at the end of each to entice him further. Sherlock was so agitated already, this should be fairly straightforward. John could picture the immediate future in his head: he would give Sherlock a massive, life-changing orgasm, inspiring eternal gratitude and unprecedented devotion. He imagined himself as an alpha, a brute with incredible stamina, wringing orgasm after orgasm out of his dubiously willing omega. _His_ omega, desperately in need of relief that could only be provided by _him_. A man of Sherlock’s strength and discipline, reduced to a mewling, helpless fuck-toy.  
   
But as the minutes passed, and Sherlock seemed no closer to orgasm, John’s confidence was undermined. He was having a very nice time, probing and rubbing at Sherlock’s insides, feeling all that smooth heat. In fact, he was getting pretty close, himself. But Sherlock seemed to be stuck on his plateau, his groans perhaps even fading in intensity. Not that John fancied himself a stratospherically talented lover, but he had thought that, with consistent pleasurable stimulation, someone as desperate as Sherlock would have easily had an earth-shattering climax by now.  
   
Alright, so what was he missing? Perhaps they needed to change positions. Sherlock might need to feel John’s cock thrusting more deeply. Also, he was possibly being too gentle. Alphas treated their mates rough. And his understanding was that they used lots of hard, possessive language.  
   
John pulled out and away, taking the opportunity to give his cock a hard squeeze just behind the head. The urge to come dissipated as he ordered, “Hands and knees.”  
   
Sherlock obeyed, not hesitating but moving slowly, his arms and legs unsteady as he pulled them underneath himself. But that pert, round arse looked so delicious now, thrust up and on display as it was. John had a good long feel with both hands before entering Sherlock again. His cock slid right in, and Sherlock’s muscles contracted to fit perfectly around it, like Sherlock was built just for him.  
   
John dropped his voice to a low rumble. “I’ll bet it feels right to you, to be so full.”  
   
“Unh.”  
   
“You’re being such a good omega. Letting me fuck you. Hm? Yes, you just needed someone to use your body, that’s all.”  
   
“Mmh, oh.”  
   
John reached down to tug at Sherlock’s prick, which had been consistently hard, no question there. And Sherlock was pushing back without needing any more encouragement, his body instinctively greedy for cock. But thrust after thrust produced no new tension, no urgent anticipatory noises. John was fairly frustrated now by their lack of progress. He didn’t mind a drawn-out fuck, but this was getting ridiculous.  
   
“What’s the matter?” he grunted. “Don’t you like the way my cock feels inside you?” He grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and yanked him upwards, into his lap. “Here, ride me,” he commanded. Sherlock made a little embarrassed noise, so John guided the first few thrusts, getting his palms under Sherlock’s arse to lift him up, then wrapping fingers around his hips to pull him back down.  
   
Having been shown the way, Sherlock -- no less vexed than John by this point -- began to ride hard, letting John plunge deep inside him, squeaking or grunting each time their bodies collided. John leaned back so he could witness the delicious sight of his cock disappearing up into Sherlock’s body.  
   
“Touch yourself,” he snapped. He grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and guided it, wrapping his own hand around and, incredulously, showing Sherlock how it was done, how to push the foreskin up and slide it around over the wet head. But Sherlock’s frantic jerking only made his breathing more laboured and aggravated; it didn’t tip him over the edge. As his thighs began to tremble with fatigue, John held him about the waist to keep him still and began thrusting up into him.  
   
Sherlock continually threatened to slip free of John’s grasp, his body was so slick with sweat. “John,” he moaned in frustration, “I have to have an orgasm.”  
   
“I know you do.”  
   
“Make me have one!”  
   
“Tell me what you need.” John panted. “Tell me what to do.” Focusing on holding Sherlock steady -- and the sting of sweat trickling into one eye -- was all that was keeping John from coming.  
   
“I…I don’t…”  
   
Finally, John could stand no more. He was exhausted; his muscles were screaming in agony, from his abdominals to his calves. Encircling Sherlock with his arms, he pulled them down together onto the damp sheets. Still deep inside him, John spooned up tightly against his slick, hot body and gasped, “Sherlock…I love you, but I don’t know how much longer I can go on.”  
   
Sherlock twitched, and his curls tickled John’s nose. “You love me?”  
   
“Shit.” John squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it just slipped out--”  
   
“Oh, John.” Sherlock arched his back, pressing John more deeply into him. “Oh.”  
   
This had to be it. Seizing the opportunity, John snarled, “Yes. Yes, of course I love you. You’re mine.” He flipped Sherlock onto his stomach, and made a final drive inwards, then in and out, thick and hot, gasping, “You’ve always belonged to me. I love you and I’ll fight any alpha for you.”  
   
Even in the unfocused hot fury, there was no mistaking it. Sherlock’s whole body went rigid, and his sphincter gripped John’s cock ferociously. At first he tried to suppress his cries, instead making high noises in the back of his throat. But these soon gave way to screams of ecstasy and confusion. Sherlock had very little idea what his body was doing, or how long it might do it.  
   
John had no fight left in him, and succumbed to his own blindingly powerful orgasm, which had him howling and shaking in a blank oblivion. He had no knot for Sherlock to grasp, but he nonetheless felt the powerful, rippling squeeze all along his length. Then he held steady, let Sherlock’s body do its work, milking him dry. They were both quiet and still now, but for their respective involuntary muscle contractions. When John became too sensitive, and the friction too much to bear, he fought against the pull of Sherlock and gradually freed himself. He rolled to Sherlock’s left, the direction his face was turned. There was no way Sherlock could not feel his gaze, even with eyes closed, but he was unresponsive.  
   
“Hey.”  
   
Sherlock turned his head away. His whole body quivered, giving his high, continuous groan a slight trill. He moved his arms about, seeking a comfortable place to put them. He was having comparable difficulty with his legs, intermittently kicking them back and forth. His inner thighs glistened with his own lubrication, all the way to his knees. John had a cursory look between them; Sherlock did not appear to have suffered any injury. In a few minutes he’d make a closer examination.  
   
“Do you feel any better now?”  
   
“Hmmnn.”  
   
“You feel like your body got what it needed?”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
“Yeah. Got a nice feeling in your tummy right now, haven’t you?”  
   
Sherlock smiled with embarrassment and nodded.  
   
“I’ll bet you’d like a hot bath,” John said. “But you’ll have to get up.”  
   
Sherlock twisted away, into a loose imitation of the fetal position. “Can’t you bring the bath in here?”  
   
John laughed, and spooned around Sherlock’s damp, quivering form. Without even attempting to move or lift him, he could tell Sherlock was dead weight. “You want a sponge bath, you should have asked a nurse to be your flatmate. You want me, you’ll get sutures in the kitchen, no-questions-asked prescriptions, clandestine autopsies…and the occasional satiation of your mating urges.”  
   
“…I’ll get up,” Sherlock sighed, not moving. “I’m getting up.”  
   
“Take your time. I’ll go fill the bath.” John squeezed Sherlock tighter. “In a minute.”  
   
“When you do, will you bring up my mobile? So I can check my messages and see if there’s anything on. I don’t want to be _bored_ tomorrow.”  
   
John’s brow furrowed. “Yeah,” he said, trying not to sound disappointed. “Yeah, I’ll bring it to you.”  
   
He slowly pulled himself away and up off the bed. Whomever John had found in this room earlier was gone, and Sherlock had returned.


End file.
